Because
by Ikonopeiston
Summary: LeBlanc and her thoughts - in her bedroom


I own none of the characters nor places mentioned in this story. They are the sole property of Square-Enix.

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Because 

LeBlanc lay back on the heart-shaped bed and looked at the statue in the glass case opposite her. He seemed almost alive as her eye traced the lineaments of the face and figure of the ceramic image. It had not been easy finding an artist who was able to work in this most difficult material and in life-size. She had sent agents throughout the world of Spira to locate the best sculptor, the one who had the knack for bringing his work to life, the Pygmalion to this - no, not Galatea. The image she panted over was that of a man and not a mythical woman. There he stood, securely stowed away within a protective cage, this secular idol of hers, this penates of her household. She had insisted on ceramic because the color could be baked into the very structure of the work and would not flake away as paint so quickly did when applied to stone or metal. No, this would be permanent. He would stand for centuries with the same imperious stare, the same insolent pose as now.

She sighed. It had not been easy to get the copy so exact. Nooj had been horrified at her project. For some reason, he did not like to be painted or photographed or have his likeness captured in any form and had adamantly declined to sit for the artist. So the ceramist had to work from sphere images, which were shaky and tended to break up, and the few professional portraits of Nooj done at the time of his fame as a Crusader. He had reluctantly been persuaded to permit some pictures to be made for governmental files which used a more stable medium than the spheres and one which reproduced details better. These were available to serve as models for the face and head. For the body, the artist had been forced to surreptitiously follow his subject around the city while trying to memorize the way he moved and scribbling clandestine sketches on a small drawing block. Art isn't easy.

In spite of all the difficulties, the sculptor pronounced himself satisfied with the result and those who had seen the completed statue said it was the very image of the man it celebrated. The manufacturer of the actual cane used by Nooj had donated a duplicate which was incorporated into the final production as a finishing touch. Since she had established something of a reputation as a philanthropist, it was widely anticipated LeBlanc would present this remarkable work of art to the nation to serve as a public testament to the sacrifices the great man had made for every part of Spira.

She did not; she installed it in her bedroom. Opposite the bed. And only the members of her household knew. And they dared not talk.

She stood and glided across the room, her lacy peignoir foaming around her slippers. With a feeling of almost sacrilege, she unlocked the case, using a jeweled key she took from an elaborate chest on her dressing table. When she swung the door open, she was surrounded by the unique and provocative scent of the man himself. She had placed at the base of the figure sachets of amber and a woodsy fresh fragrance she had found which seemed to encapsulate what she smelled when she pressed her face against his smooth chest and inhaled. She had the perfumer tweak the basic blend until it satisfied her and had paid the man to name the new fragrance to her specifications and make sure she always had an adequate supply.

"Oh, Noojie ..." She stopped and mentally bit her tongue. After his forceful protestations, she had promised never to use that pet name again, not even in private, not even when alone with herself. If he didn't like it, that was enough. He didn't like the statue either, but so far had not made an issue of it. Out of fear he would, she had installed a sort of drapery which could be pulled across the front of the case, hiding the contents from view. She was careful to draw the curtain when she expected him to visit her and, up to now, he had not ordered her to get rid of the sculpture.

She hugged herself deliriously. He was such a manly man. She simply loved being dominated by a man like that – one who wasn't awed by her wealth or frightened by her beauty. It made her feel so feminine, more so than all her seductive clothes and frothy accessories. She reached into the case to touch the figure. If she only had sufficient magic to make this one live she would never have to be lonely again. She ran her palm down the convincing sleeve which fell down to the knuckles of the black-gloved left hand and was shaken in spite of herself when she touched hard porcelain instead of folded cloth. In her musings, she had expected fabric, fabric which could be moved, pushed aside. Alas, this version was forever dressed. She laughed at her fantasy and, sadly pressing the door shut, turned the key.

Unwilling to move all the way back to her bed, she sank down on the deep carpet and curled against the cool glass. She could at least sit at his feet. And dream. Until she could sit at his feet in reality.

The one disruption in the smoothness of their relationship was his refusal to accept how his strangeness affected her. She loved the touch of his left hand, that cold and darkly gloved hand, on her naked body. The very sight of it moving across her white skin made her tremble even in the memory of it. In return, she liked to stroke the places where the taut flexibility of his golden skin was melded with the metallic glint of the prostheses which gave him what mobility he retained. No intact man's body affected her this way. She, herself, did not know why the blending of man and machina was so – exciting. Why it only took wrapping her leg around his metal-clad left hip to drive her into a frenzy. Why she became orgasmic just slipping her fingers around the sheath which held his leg to the stump left when the organic one had been destroyed. But he could not be convinced no matter how often she told him or displayed her specific responses. At first, he had been unwilling to come naked to her bed but she had lovingly teased him out of that and now there was no self-consciousness that she could detect. If only he would let her ...

There was always tonight. Tonight, barring unforeseen complications, the original from which the statue had been drawn would be in this room, on this bed and she could turn away from the substitute and engage the real. She felt herself become moist at the thought of what they would do in the heart-shaped bed. He liked to play rough games sometimes and she indulged him because it was a part of his manliness and her own submission made her even more aroused. Running her palms down her torso, she wondered if he would hurt her tonight. At the thought, she became aware of a need deeply centered in her body. A throb, an ache. Of course, sometimes he was so gentle she could have been lying with Baralai and that excited her too. It was like having a procession of men in one's bed. Always the unexpected. The only constant was the machina, those alien limbs. They were always there, always threatening, always stimulating. In her mind, she pressed herself against the unyielding, angular surface of the metal leg and felt her passions flare again. What lay at the nexus of the machina and the human partook of the best of them both. It was rigid, hard, irresistible, yet sheathed in the softest velvet with a tip of satin. She could feel it under her fingers even now. Her breath came faster. Her hands moved restlessly. She hungered. Would the night never come?

She looked up at the statue which seemed to bend ominously toward her. Why had she not had one constructed of another less forbidding material or one which was heroically nude. You saw ones like that in many public squares. She should have had a naked Nooj made for her personal use. Because she could not always wait for the real one.

Dec 9, 20045181294


End file.
